The soldiers scattered about as usual pretending to
seek arms and horses, but in reality for the sole purpose
of looting.

In the afternoon some of Demetrio's men lay stretched
out on the church steps, scratching their bellies. Venan-
cio, his chest and shoulders bare, was gravely occupied
in killing the fleas in his shirt. A man drew near the wall
and sought permission to speak to the commander. The
soldiers raised their heads; but no one answered.

"I'm a widower, gentlemen. I've got nine children and
I barely make a living with the sweat of my brow. Don't
be hard on a poor widower!"

"Don't you worry about women, Uncle," said Meco,
who was rubbing his feet with tallow, "we've got War
Paint here with us; you can have her for nothing."

The man smiled bitterly.

"She's only got one fault," Pancracio observed,
stretched out on the ground, staring at the blue sky,
"she goes mad over any man she sees."

They laughed loudly; but Venancio with utmost gravity
pointed to the chapel door. The stranger entered timidly
and confided his troubles to Demetrio. The soldiers had
cleaned him out; they had not left a single grain of corn.